The 60th Hunger Games
by herecomesshortlimbs
Summary: The sixtieth Hunger Games are not well known, but that doesn't mean they weren't exciting! A particularly challenging arena will push many of the tributes to their limits, and only the strongest tribute will survive. Will it be yours?  *Closed*
1. Rules and Such

Alright, so, **Let the SYOT 60th Hunger Games begin!**

I realize that there are approximately a billion of these floating about in FanFicdom, but I have two items in my defense.

-Firstly, I'm considering this to be my exercise for my ultimate goal: The Second Quarter Quell. Think of me as an aspiring marathon runner. Only, without the icky running part.

-Secondly, even if people are tired of these showing up on the HG page, no one has to read them, and I'm sure more than a fair portion of people have their own little tribute incubating in their minds, and are thrilled with the idea of sending them into the wild.

_HEREGOES._

**Rules:**

1. One person can submit as many as two tributes, but no promises that I'll use both. I may want to tweak things about them (most likely age), and I'll PM the creator if I do.

2. Any questionable tributes will be subjected to the Litmus Test. I will sentence Sues/Stus to a slow death by Muttations. End of story.

3. If you submit a tribute from District Twelve, there shall be no flames when I kill them. I cannot change history.

4. Submitters cannot be sponsors. I and my many personalities shall be the only sponsors in these games (although, if a particular tribute is popular in the reviews, I'm sure one of my personalities will take notice). I will send submitters messages containing their sponsor points and reasons for any increases. I'll try to keep up a running list available, but, again, no promises.

5. I don't know who's going to win, and have no preconceived notions. The story will take me to the victor. That, and the sponsors. And the tributes' skills. And the lack of or abundance of sharp things.

6. I've decided that there are going to be ten bloodbath victims. Meaning, there are fourteen spots available. If they fill up, and you're willing to provide fodder, be my guest, but otherwise the bloodbathers are of my own creation (sniffletear).

**Tribute Submission Form:**

Name (Full name and any nicknames):

Age:

District:

Appearance:

Personality:

Family (Please, only things that would be relevant to the story):

Friends (Or, if your tribute is a friendless loser, then whoever visits them after they're reaped):

History:

Strengths:

Weaknesses (Fear of the dark doesn't count, beeteedubs):

How Does He/She React to Unexpected Trouble?:

Reaped or Volunteered (Please consider the fact that, unless your tribute is a career, it is VEEEEEEEEEERY unlikely that he/she would have volunteered):  
>If Reaped, How Did HeShe React?:

If a Volunteer, Why?:

Outfit at the Reaping (I realize that most people also ask for Opening Ceremonies outfits, but since I'm the sponsors, and the mentors, then I am also the stylists):  
>Is HeShe Accustomed to/Comfortable in Extravagant Clothes?:

How Would He/She React to Being Naked? (Just for giggles…maybe):

Romance (Lovers at home/possible relationship with another tribute):

Alliances (Would he/she join any, how loyal would they be, etc.):

Loyalty to the Capitol:

Preferred Death:

District Token and How He/She Got It (Optional):


	2. District Information

**District Information:**

District One: A Career district that provides luxury items for the Capitol. Tributes from this district are not likely to have very many survival skills, but are almost guaranteed to be strong fighters. This district often secures many sponsors.

Mentors—Shine Ingot and Luxuria Maxin

District Two: Another Career district. Outwardly, this district quarries stone, but they are more secretly the providers of most of the Capitol's weaponry. District Two tributes are almost all well-trained, and tend to enjoy putting on a show for the audience. This district almost always draws sponsors.

Mentors—Brutus Stone and Lyme Breake

District Three: This district provides electronics for the Capitol. Tributes tend to be physically weak, but of above average intelligence. They would not have much knowledge of the wilderness, however.

Mentors—Beetee Machina and Electra Storm

District Four: The fishing district, and a Career district. Tributes tend to be very strong, either from training or fishing, and are more capable of securing food and water than other Careers. They could be outmatched by other, better-trained Careers. Sponsors are generally fond of these tributes.

Mentors—Current Ovor and Mags Wieren

District Five: The industry of this district is unknown, but based on Foxface, it can be assumed that tributes from this district are unfamiliar with nature. For purposes of the story, this district breeds scientist for that capitol. Tributes would be smart, but lack physical strength.

Mentors—Orion Levits and Nebula Foraker

District Six: This district's industry is also unknown, but based on the Morphlings, it is suspected that it produces medicine for the capitol. Tributes from this district would have knowledge of medicinal uses of plants, and would make good use of any found medical supplies.

Mentors—Hemlock Nule and Lira Moke

District Seven: This district provides lumber and paper product to the capitol. Tributes would have considerable knowledge of plant and animal life. Those who have already begun to cut down trees would have an advantage over many other tributes, but most are too emaciated to pose a physical threat.

Mentors—Blight Ironsmith and Maxwell Durney

District Eight: Tributes from this district, the textile district, would be adept at creating shelters. They generally lack other survival skills, and are rarely able to content in combat with other tributes. Sponsors rarely support tributes from this district, except in extreme circumstances

Mentors—Kurtis Weaver and Cecelia Haven

***Note: Cecelia is young and inexperienced. In my mind, she is a newly crowned victor, and this is her first time as a mentor***

District Nine: This district most likely manufactures goods for the Capitol. Tributes would be used to factory life, so it is unlikely that they'd have many advantageous skills in the arena. This district rarely acquires sponsors.

Mentors—Gear Bustin and Joina Faust

District Ten: This district provides livestock. These tributes would be physically strong after cattle wrangling, and would have some ability to hunt. Lack of weapons skills would be the most challenging hurtle for tributes from this district.

Mentors—Barley Crier and Mina Crier

District Eleven: This district sends produce to the Capitol, and while yhe tributes from this district are generally small, from being underfed, they are usually able to feed themselves in the arena better than most. Knowledge of plants is the strongest attribute of this district. This district rarely acquires sponsors, unless tributes are truly exceptional.

Mentors—Chaff Longwell and Seeder Mine

District Twelve: This district provides the coal that powers much of the Capitol. Tributes from this district come in with next to no skills, because they are not familiar with their district's trade, and have little knowledge of plant and animal life. Sponsors do not support this district unless tributes are truly exceptional.

Mentors—Haymitch Abernathy and Lippa Marston


	3. Sponsorship Information

Sponsorship Points:

Every submitter is automatically given fifty points for the first tribute, and fifteen for a second tribute. You may not buy gifts until the games begin.

Ten points will be available at each update, if the submitter correctly PMs the answer to a general knowledge question. Only one guess is allowed. These questions will be diverse, and unrelated to the Hunger Games, in order to ensure that these points are not too easy to come by for anyone.

If a tribute does something really spiffy in the arena, I'll give out additional points.

**General List of Items:**

**Supplies-**

Matches (six): 5 points

Matches (twelve): 10 points

Socks (cotton): 5 points

Socks (wool): 10 points

Mittens: 5 points

Gloves (wool/leather): 10 points

Water (one liter): 15 points

Water (two liters): 20 points

Water (four liters): 30 points

Crackers (six): 10 points

Crackers (twelve): 15 points

Crackers (twenty-four): 25 points

Dried Fruit: 15 points

Turkey Jerky: 15 points

Beef Jerky: 20 points

Bread (from a district): 20 points

Bread (from the Capitol): 30 points

Needle and Thread (six feet): 20 points

Needle and Thread (twelve feet): 25 points

Wire (six feet): 20 points

Wire (twelve feet): 30 points

Rope (three feet): 20 points

Rope (six feet): 30 points

Jacket (Not water-proof): 25 points

Jacket (Waterproof): 45 points

Boots: 25 points

Blanket (4x6): 25 points

Water Proof Fabric (4x6): 45 points

Bandages (six feet): 25 points

Bandages (twelve feet): 40 points

Minor Burn Medicine: 30 points

Severe Burn Medicine: 60 points

Fresh Fruit (one piece): 35 points

Fresh Fruit (three pieces): 50 points

Night-vision Glasses: 45 points

Underwater Goggles: 45 points

Net: 45 points

First-Aid kit (fever reducers, bandages, painkillers, and disinfectant): 50 points

First-Aid kit (all of the above, plus antibiotics, sleep syrup, and medical-grade needle and thread): 75 points

Full Meal (from a district): 60 points

Full Meal (from the capitol): 100 points

**Weaponry-**

Darts (six): 15 points

Poison (single lethal dose): 15 points

Knife: 25 points

Dagger: 30 points

Machete: 30 points

Hatchet: 35 points

Club: 35 points

Spear: 45 points

Ax: 45 points

Battle Ax: 100 points

Mace: 45 points

Sword: 50 points

Broadsword: 75 points

Trident: 125 points


	4. The Tributes

**Competitors:**

**I am done accepting tributes. This is the final list.  
><strong>

District One:

Male—Julleus Knight, 17 _(Sonofhell666)_

Female—Austre Siren, 18 _(Nightfall12)_

District Two:

Male— Cosmo Marlisan, 18 _(Maddie Rose)_

Female—Zero Mythica, 16 _(someoneelese10)_

District Three:

Male—Cotan Kay, 13 (Bloodbath) _(Sonofhell666)_

Female—Leona Avalon, 14 _(laralulu)_

District Four:

Male—Rip Killian, 18 _(Scarletspeedster)_

Female—Venora Credylad, 17 _(SignoraBelikova)_

District Five:

Male—Karvick Passa, 18 (Bloodbath)

Female—Jushia Fulstead, 15 (Bloodbath)

District Six:

Male—Marvin Avingon, 13 (Bloodbath)

Female—Brinna Rosalyn Marszcol, 16 _(Iluv every book out there)_

District Seven:

Male—Harvey Pine, 15 (Bloodbath)

Female—Sparrow Ardelin, 13 _(SignoraBelikova)_

District Eight:

Male—Shire Murphy, 14 _(Maddie Rose)_

Female—Esther Quome, 15 (Bloodbath)

District Nine:

Male—Osten Tread, 17 (Bloodbath)

Female—Sun Glasska, 17 (Bloodbath)

District Ten:

Male—Evan Rancher, 12 (Bloodbath)

Female—Destry Marshall, 16 _(SkyWriter9)_

District Eleven:

Male—Nate Morgue, 14 _(RiversOfVenice)_

Female—Neeve Locks, 16 _(VioletCrimsonDespair)_

District Twelve:

Male—Flame Olivero, 18 _(Sonofhell666)_

Female—Roche Humer, 13 (Bloodbath)

**First Chance for additional Sponsor Points:  
><strong>

**Closed. You all are riddle failures. Only one person got the answer.**

**A: 2, 2 and 9.  
><strong>

**A man comes across a friend he had not seen in years. He asks him how he's been, and his friend tells him that he's gotten married and has three children. The man asks how old his friend's children are, and, because his friend is a jerk, he says that the man must figure out the ages of his children based on three clues. (Assume all ages are Integers)**

**The clues are:**

**1. The product of my children's ages is thirty-six.**

**2. The sum of my children's ages is equal to the number of windows on the closest building to us (the number of windows is unknown to you).**

**3. My oldest child has blue eyes.**

**What are the ages of the old friend's children?**


	5. Sponsor Points

Sponsor Points:

(Throughout the games, I'll update this list as well as the list of sponsor gifts and their prices. If you want to send a gift that is not on the list, I'll negotiate a price with you)

Sonofhell666: 80

Nightfall12: 50

Maddie Rose: 93

someoneelese10: 50

laralulu: 55

Scarletspeedster: 60

SignoraBelikova: 80

Iluv every book out there: 50

SkyWriter9: 80

RiversofVenice: 85

VioletCrimsonDespair: 80

**Sponsor Points:**

**Solve each of the following systems:**

**Closed. There is an answer, but they were all ridiculous fractions that I lost and have no intention of trying to find.  
><strong>

**(I decided to give a specific deadline for these questions, in case I get really inspired and update a lot very quickly, so I will accept answers to all sponsor questions up to one week after they are available)**

**Deadline: 5/3**

**System 1: **

**3x+4y=27**

**48-11x=2y**

**System 2: **

**x/7-35=y**

**7y=90-x**

**System 3: **

**43-5y=2x**

**30x+20=5y**


	6. The Reaping: District One

**The Reaping: District One**

**Only the Reapings and Games will be this in-depth. I wanted to establish character histories.  
><strong>

**Julleus Knight**

When my father calls me from the bottom floor of our mansion, I rise out of bed automatically. I did not sleep the night before and am not tired now, because today is my day.

I ruffle a hand through my unruly golden hair, willing it to lie flat for at least today. I do not anticipate much, but I still feel like I need to make the effort. At least my outfit won't be lacking.

For the occasion, I pull an outfit out of my closet that I've never had the opportunity to wear before—a pair of black satin slacks, and a soft cashmere sweater that's the same color as the amber rings in my hazel eyes. I complete the outfit with a pair of square-toed dress shoes before examining myself in the mirror in my bedroom.

I see a victor in the reflective glass, and can't help the grin that results. My well-muscled body is intimidating, but not grotesque like some of the largest tributes can be, and combined with my winning smile I present an attractive picture. And while being good looking can't win you the Hunger Games, it certainly can help.

I descend two flights of stairs to meet my father and older brother in the kitchen. They are wearing identical white uniforms, because the only people who work the day of the Reaping are the peacekeepers. They look at me in approval, because they know what I've been thinking of all night. This is my day.

This is the day that I volunteer as a tribute, and this is the year that I become the victor of the 60th Hunger Games.

My father is lifting a forkful of salmon—a special kind of fish that can only be imported from the capitol—to his mouth, but places his flatware down at the sight of me in my Reaping outfit.

"Your hair could use some work," he says gruffly, but not unkindly. I can tell that he is being hypercritical because he is nervous. I've waited so long to volunteer as a tribute, that this is my second-to-last last chance to get in the games. He was so disappointed when my older brother, James, was not chosen. Of course James volunteered, but there were so many that year that there was a mad dash for the stage, and James is no runner. Instead, James followed in my father's footsteps and donned the white uniform.

After speaking with several of my training buddies, I learned that no one is planning to volunteer this year. Of course, this could change in the heat of the moment, but I'll still have the advantage of premeditation.

"You know as well as I do that that won't happen," I tell him dismissively. It's not like the unkempt curls detract from my appearance. In fact, several girls that I train with have had nothing but nice things to say about my blond locks.

My father just grunts in response, and James chuckles quietly before returning to his breakfast. In the silence, I pull out a chair by its wrought-iron back and slump into it. Before me is a plate of Salmon, poached eggs, and toast with almond butter. It's surprisingly decadent, and I know that I shouldn't let it go to waste, but I don't think that my stomach will accept the food.

I sit, staring at my plate, gently poking the giving surface of my eggs with the tines of my fork, and eventually James notices. His boot connects with my shin under the table, and I glare at him after letting out a barely stifled groan.

"Dad would never forgive you if you sent me into the arena with an injury," I say, drawing my father's attention. He narrows his sharp eyes at my brother before turning them to me. I know that I am in more trouble than my brother when he sees my full plate.

"Just because you're big doesn't mean you can afford to skip meals. Especially now," he grumbles at me, and I take a big bite of my toast because disappointing my father is the last thing that I want to do. He nods and breaks his stare to clean up the plates. He takes mine in spite of the concerns he has about my caloric intake, but he tells me that the bread and almond butter form a complete protein, and on its own, it's not a bad meal.

"Right," I say through a mouthful of bread. My stomach gurgles disconcertingly in response to the incoming food, but I suppress the sensation.

"Well, let's go," my father says without preamble. He is halfway to the door before me or James is out of our seats, and he busies himself by fastening his badge while he's waiting.

This badge, the one that sets him up on a pedestal as Head Peacekeeper, is the object of my father's pride and joy. This is not to say that he doesn't love his children, but a small part of me hopes that he will be just as eager to display me to the citizens of district one as he is to show his badge.

Walking to the Justice Building is uneventful, and my family wordlessly diverges as we go to our posts. My father and brother are to watch the crowd for stragglers, and I am to stand in waiting with the rest of the eighteen year olds eligible for the Reaping.

"Titis!" I cry out when I spot my training partner in the crowd. He catches my eye and grins, forming a space in the sea of people for me to stand.

"How are you feeling, Julleus?" he asks nonchalantly. He is not considering volunteering, and I can't help but be envious. His parents don't love him any less for not competing in the games. But I know I would be forever diminished in my father's eyes if I didn't. The same way James is.

The District One escort, Lillaya Hirksy is sporting swirling tattoos this year. She earns tremendous applause from those gathered in the square.

The next moments pass for me almost instantaneously. A girl is Reaped, and hurries up to the stage before anyone else can volunteer. She breezily takes her place beside Lillaya and stares into the crowd, smiling as though she had planned to volunteer the whole time.

I do not hear the name of the male tribute who is reaped, and call out "I volunteer," before anyone else has time to think. I run up to the stage, because I can hear bustling around me that means others are preparing to follow my lead, but I climb the stairs before any of the others get the words out.

Now that I am onstage, I realize that the female tribute is slender, with little muscle mass compared to the dozens of girls who where probably anxious to volunteer themselves. This bodes well for my chances in the arena, but I don't completely count her out because she is possibly the most gorgeous being I've ever seen. I'm not stupid enough to fall for her, but that isn't to say she won't be good for a few donations in the arena.

As our aging mayor reads the treaty of treason, I smile complacently at the cameras, and try to build up my own confidence, because the second I take the girl tribute's hand to shake I realize two very important things.

1. I don't want to kill anyone.

2. I don't want to die.

* * *

><p><strong>Austre Siren<strong>

The day of the Reaping I am the first person in my house who is awake. I did manage to sleep for about five hours, but at half past four in the morning I am jolted awake by a nightmare that I don't remember, and I can tell from my galloping heart rate that I will not be going back to bed any time soon.

I quickly peel off my sweaty sleep clothes and put on one of my training outfits. True, I don't plan on volunteering today, but there's always the chance that I'll be reaped, and I want to make sure that I have a nice tone to what muscles I do have.

I crawl down the stairs into my basement, where my family keeps the training equipment. I breeze past the various ropes we have to practice knots, because who needs them? Instead, I warm up by jogging with a five pound weight in each hand. The physical exertion replaces whatever tension was left in my body from my dream, and I revel in the fluidity of motion.

After I've broken a light sweat, I move on to the various weapons we have lined up against the wall. I pick up a long, slender sword, and go through several of the most basic positions before graduating to more complicated maneuvers. It would be easier if I had a sparring partner, but I do well combating my invisible opponent.

The sword has never been my favorite, so I return it to its place after a relatively short amount of time. It's a good skill to have, because swords are almost always guaranteed to be in the arena, but my true specialties lie in throwing knives and javelins.

We have three javelins, in theory one for each child, but I'm the only one in my family that ever took to them, so I'm rather possessive of them.

I take one in my left hand, and one in my right. I heft the one in my right hand into the nearest dummy to me—twenty feet away—and after I'm sure that it's secured itself in the gut of its victim, I launch the other javelin that I'm holding into the next closest dummy, which is fifty feet away.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, and as I reach out for the final javelin, I hear a man's voice bark out, "Paws off my javelin, Austre!"

"Like you need it anymore," I snap at him. To prove my point, I send the weapon directly into the head of the furthest dummy—100 feet.

"Just because I'm not going into the arena doesn't mean I want you putting your grimy hands all over my weapons," my brother, Gallent, responds. Outwardly, he sounds downright pissed, but he's wearing a broad grin, so I know he's only kidding. He and I both know it would be collecting dust if I didn't use it.

"Need a sparring partner?" he asks me, suddenly pleasant. He picks up a staff, but I shake my head.

"What time is it?"

"Six," he says, placing the staff back to the rack he took it from.

"I'm going to go get dressed for the Reaping," I say, wiping my sweaty blond hair away from my face. I need to shower and make myself presentable.

"You're sure you don't want to do any weight training, pipsqueak?" he teases me. Ever since it became obvious that I'd never be able to put on the same bulk as the other girls my age, this has been his nickname for me, but I don't really mind. My body is streamlined, though. The muscles that are there are powerful. Besides, I'm just vain enough to be glad that I don't have the bulging biceps of other girls my age, because I don't think they're attractive at all.

"No, I have to go doll myself up," I respond, and slink past him.

My first goal is a shower, and I wash the sticky sweat off of my body. I dress myself in an ethereal-looking white dress and step into an intimidatingly tall pair of heels. It took me a few years to learn how to maintain my graceful gait in shoes this tall, but the confidence they give me is well worth it.

I give myself a one-over in the mirror. I really am gorgeous. My blond hair covers my bare shoulders, and my blue eyes sparkle.

When my sister walks into the room, the smile that I wear for the mirror transforms into a scowl.

"What?" I spit at her before she has the chance to open her mouth.

"We need to get to the square for the reaping. Mom and Dad told me to get you," she mutters sullenly.

Without speaking another word to her, I meet my parents on our first floor. My sister follows me, but it's only because she has to. Demure tries, and always has, to one-up me at everything we do. She's always competed against me for our parents attention, and she never fails to bring up the fact that, even though she's four years younger, she's much bigger than I am. It doesn't really matter that much, anyway. I can best her at any weapon easily.

"Are you ready yet, dear?" My mother asks sweetly.

"Yes," I say, sugarcoating my voice because I just know that it's driving Demure up a wall.

"Then let's get going," my father says, patting my shoulder affectionately while guiding me out the door.

I walk at a brisk pace to the square, which is only a short walk from my house. I distance myself from the rest of my family and make a beeline for the eighteens, where my best friends Lilac and Caine are waiting for me.

"Austre, you look so pretty!" Caine gushes as she hugs me in greeting.

"Thank you," I purr. Caine and Lilac tend to act as my personal confidence buoys. They always make sure I know just how lovely I am.

"Do you know who's volunteering this year?" Lilac asks me. I'm not sure, so I shake my head no.

"So there's an open field?" she asks, her eyes glinting with excitement.

"I'll fight you for it," I say quietly, because I'm almost entirely serious. I know that I love Lilac and Caine more than any one else but my brother, but who could deny the Capitol a tribute as pretty as me?

I'm just thinking that maybe I will volunteer this year when the inane escort calls out my name.

_Perfect._

I can only just keep myself from sprinting as I take to the stage. This couldn't have gone any better, and the smile on my face is entirely genuine.

The woman pulls a name out of the boys' reaping bowl, but a boy I recognize as the Head Peacekeeper's younger son volunteers before she's entirely done reading the name.

I take a break from seducing the masses and appraise my fellow tribute. He's got quite a mop of hair, but otherwise he's nearly as attractive as me. I'm glad. I've heard other girls my age fawning over him, but I'd never seen him up close until now. He'll be a good district partner, for as long as I keep him alive.

**Sponsor Points:**

**Deadline: 5/3  
><strong>

**Following the fall of the Roman Empire, the Mediterranean became dominated by Arabic traders. They had boats that were more stable, and faster than any contemporaries, but were smaller than most others. What was the name of these boats?**


	7. The Reaping: District Two

**The Reaping: District Two**

**Cosmo Marlisan**

I walk through the front door of my father's house in the Victor's Village without bothering to mute my footsteps. It's nearly dawn, and I'm sure that my father is still asleep, but there's no way he'll wake up through the fog of alcohol that I'm sure he's shrouded in.

To be fair, I've had a few drinks myself tonight, but I'm not really drunk. Besides, I'm volunteering for the Hunger Games later today, so I feel entitled to some libations. My crew felt the same way last night, so they broke into the home of the man who sells the strong spirits that are technically illegal to bring me a future-victor present.

It's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done to me.

We spent the night carousing, much like most other nights, and I practiced my combat skills on whatever passersby I found. Usually, I leave a few to Dustan, but he was being rather charitable. He is and always has been my favorite.

I clomp up to the bathroom to wash the stench of liquor off of me, and dress myself in an ordinary outfit because, really, no matter what I wear, people will see only one thing: a victor.

I pass my father's bedroom on my way to the kitchen and hear his drunken snores. I should wake him up, because attendance is mandatory, especially victors, but I can't quell the contempt that rises inside me when I think of his passed-out body. So I don't.

I find a heel of bread that was left out on the counter, and grimace at its staleness. Sure, we're one of the wealthiest families in the district, but that doesn't mean that my father can be bothered to buy fresh bread. I complement my meal with beef jerky—the only other food in my house that I can trust hasn't gone bad—and eat in silence.

From my seat in the kitchen, I can see the sunrise and watch the shadows of the mountains shrink. I could almost be content while I'm sitting here, but there's a thud coming from upstairs, and I can hear unstable foot steps. There's no need to be around that.

Maybe Dustan is still out.

I barrel out the door, slamming it behind me, and begin walking through back alleys to the Justice Building. I trace the path that I think we walked last night. The broken glass and blood spatters on the ground tell me that I've found it. Surely enough, I see his lean figure propped against a stone wall.

I gesture to the bottle he has held loosely in his hands and say, "Hey, is there anything left in that?"

He slowly shakes his head and then presses his free hand against his temple. I suspected as much. I didn't really want a drink. I'd be an idiot if I showed up drunk to my own Reaping, but I had a strong feeling that the majority of the bottle had gone to Dustan that he confirms with his sluggish behavior.

"How about you get rid of that?" I suggest, holding my hand out to accept the empty container. He ignores my hand and lets the glass shatter against the street.

He's not in very good shape at all. His eyes seem like they're more red than white, and he reeks nearly as bad as my father. "Did you go home at all today?"

Dustan still doesn't say anything, but he shakes his head no. I'm getting sick of his attitude, so I punch him in the arm and ask him what the matter is. I honestly wouldn't be interested if he were anyone else in my gang, but I actually sort of like Dustan. Or, I don't mind him. He's usually good for a laugh, at least.

"'M just wondering what's gonna happen to the gang without you," he says quietly.

"What do you mean? I'll be back in a few weeks."

"Probably," he mutters under his breath.

I'm dumbfounded. Does he think I won't win? "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just, even for you, one in twenty-four isn't a great statistic," he fumbles.

Before I can restrain myself, I punch him in the jaw. Who's he to say that I don't have good odds? There's no one bigger, or meaner than me. To prove my point, I knock him to the ground and punch him again. "You want to say that again? You think that you or anyone else can take me on? Can kill me?"

I'm wailing on him, and he's too drunk to put up a fight. I start screaming obscenities at him, and it feels like hours later that I realize I'm screaming my father's name instead of Dustan's.

Immediately, my adrenaline fades.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed out right now. Don't worry about the games. I'll come back. I'm trusting you to keep the guys in line until I get back." My voice has lost all traces of my anger, and it mostly sounds tired.

Amazingly, Dustan is looking at me trustingly. He nods in affirmation. With his blood all over his face and my hands, he's still a faithful number two. Maybe this is why I like him. I look at my knuckles and see that part of one of his teeth is imbedded there.

"Smile for me, Dustan," I say sarcastically, and he grins anyway. I see it was one of his incisors. He doesn't appear to be in any pain, but it's probably the alcohol numbing it. I grab his arm to pull him to his feet. In the distance, I hear the manic cheering that signifies the Reaping, and I know I have to speed things up.

"You're going to be sore tomorrow. You should skip the Reaping. Just steer clear of any Peacekeepers," I'm a little worried about his cognizance, but 'steer clear of Peacekeepers' is such a common practice for us, that it's probably as natural to him as breathing.

"Yeah, I will. You… win fast," he mutters through his bloody mouth and spins around to walk away from the Justice Building.

I begin to run, because I feel like I'm cutting it really close. When I get to the crowded square, I have to shove my way through the entire population of my district before I get to my destination. I see that the girl tribute has already been chosen, and I get there just in time to hear our district escort call out Dustan's name.

I almost laugh at the coincidence, but I volunteer instead. No one fights me as I climb onto the stage, and I don't blame them. Everyone knows these are my games.

* * *

><p><strong>Zero Mythica<strong>

_I have been training my whole life for this._

That is my waking thought this morning. Nothing about nerves, or fear, because I've been perfecting my body and mind for the Hunger Games since my father handed me my first knife and had me stick it into a sandbag with as much force as I could. It took a week for me to pierce its canvas skin. By the time I was seven, I could rip a hole in the dummy that would have disemboweled a human. My birthday present that year was a bone-handled dagger. It is my most prized possession.

My parents are of the mind that, as their only child, it's my responsibility to bring honor to our household by winning the games. I agree, and when I was twelve, I wanted to volunteer so badly that my parents threatened not to let me go to the Reaping at all. It was an empty threat, obviously. Attendance is mandatory. It did the trick, though.

We came up with an agreement that year, because I didn't think I could wait until I was eighteen to volunteer. They told me that I could volunteer for my sixteenth birthday, which was last month. This is the best birthday present that I've gotten since my dagger.

I roll off of my mattress, and brush my shaggy red hair. My dirty blond roots are beginning to show again, but I'm sure that my stylist will take care of that once I get to the Capitol.

My dress for the Reaping is already laid out, because I wanted to look at it while I was trying to sleep. It's a skintight silver dress with a slit up the thigh, and I just know I'll dazzle a few rich Capitol citizens with it. I pull the article on and zip it up, and admire the way it clings to my firm muscles. I've got more muscle mass than any girl I know, which is just more proof that I don't need to wait until I'm eighteen to volunteer.

I decide that I look acceptable, so I go to find myself a loaf of bread and a cup of tea before I go to the Justice Building.

My mother is already sitting at our kitchen table, and she is beaming at me. Before I can greet her, she jumps up to put a kettle of water on the range to boil and asks me what kind of tea I want.

"Mint is good," I tell her. There is already a small loaf of rich bakery bread on the table, so I slice off a piece and eat it.

"I just can't tell you how proud I am!" my mother cries excitedly. She stands over me and tousles my hair while I'm eating. I would have minded before I got my spiky haircut, but her hands don't really mess anything up now.

The kettle screeches, so she bounds away to retrieve it. Shortly after, shortly enough that I'm sure it was the kettle that woke him, my father walks in. He kisses my head quickly and says good morning to my mother.

She places the steaming mug in front of me, and I can smell the mint leaves. I leave it to steep a little while longer, and eat another slice of bread.

My father gives me a warm smile and says, "I'm so glad you talked us into letting you volunteer early. I'm not sure I could have waited another two years to be the father of a victor."

I couldn't agree more, but I don't say anything because I've started drinking the tea, and my mother's added just enough milk and honey. It goes really well with the spices in the bread.

"Do you want anything else, Zer?" my mother asks. "I could cut up a peach for you, or maybe you'd like a few eggs, or—"

I cut her off before she offers to make me a soufflé, because I really don't have enough time for anything else.

"I'm fine, thanks Mom." I give her a smile before draining the contents of my mug. "Alright, let's get going then!"

My parents run around trying to find a camera. They waste several minutes searching until they notice that I am tapping my foot impatiently at them.

"Sorry, honey. We know you're excited. Let's just leave now," my father suggests.

I couldn't agree more, so I push through the front door and into town. I live in the wealthier part of the district, so the square where the Reaping is being held is only a short walk away. Still, I am impatient, so I bolt to the clearing. I say good-bye to my parents, and move through the crowd to stand in my assigned spot. While I walk there, dozens of people who think they're my best friends call out wishes of luck, or compliments on my looks, or just say hello. Sometimes I'd just like to scream out that they don't know me. But I never would.

Finally, I make it to my destination. I'm early, though, and my only real friends have yet to make an appearance. I spend the time talking to a girl in my year in school about how great it is that I'm volunteering so young, and that I'm sure to win. The conversation is so generic that I'm nearly bored to death by the time that Amethyst taps my shoulder.

"Hey, Zer. Killer dress," she says, and squirms about to find a comfortable way to stand in the mob.

I laugh gaily and answer, "Let's hope so, it could save me some trouble."

Several girls around me that I didn't know were listening burst into hysterics, and I can feel the annoyance on my face. It isn't until I see Amethyst's knowing smile that I calm down. As long as I have a real friend around, the fakes might as well disappear.

"What's so funny?" Diamond asks as she worms into our circle.

I hug her in greeting. "Nothing, really. I just said something fantastically witty."

"Same old, same old, then?" she asks me, grinning.

We chat like that for a while, until our escort, the flamboyantly orange Lypso Breen, takes to the stage. I have dreamed of his voice calling out my name for years. I know it's not likely, and that I can always volunteer, but it would've been nice.

He calls out "Ladies first!" before dipping into the Reaping ball and drawing out a slip. He reads the name of a girl I've never met, but I can hear wailing coming from the twelves. It's kind of dumb that she think no one will volunteer for her. Amethyst's elbow touches my ribs, and I know this is my cue.

I saunter to the stage, savoring the moment and yell "I volunteer!" for all of the District to hear. Lypso welcomes me to the stage and proceeds to the boys' Reaping Ball. I'm not actually sure why they even have those for our district any more. I can't even remember the last time a tribute from our district wasn't a volunteer.

I'm lost in thought, grinning out of habit, and a very large, sullen-looking boy comes to stand beside me. When we shake hands, I notice blood on his knuckles.

I won't say that I'm nervous, but I do have to wonder—who is this guy?

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	8. The Reaping: District Three

**Reaping: District Three**

**(Laralulu-I decided to assume Clee and Xanthe were boys. I didn't want to stall on the updates while I'm still motivated)**

**Leona "Sparky" Avalon**

"Do you think it'll be one of us this year?" Falcon asks in a whisper. Those of us who are awake—me, Xanthe, Gwenyth, and Clee—look at each other warily. Falcon may be old enough to stay up all night with us before the Reaping, but he's still only seven. When he asks this painful question, I think that I might have been remiss in not asking him to go to bed with the little ones.

"The odds are against it," Xanthe says carefully, but it's easier for him to say than the rest of us, because he's only ten. He won't be eligible for the Reaping for two years. For Gwenyth, I know that every other thought going through her head is, _it could be me_.

Clee and I are more able to deal with the stress and abject fear that comes with being eligible, but most of that is because we have to be, since we're the oldest. Usually, I'm a pretty good role model for the others, but on Reaping days they're the only thing that keeps me from hiding under my covers and sobbing for all that I'm worth.

Some days, I wonder how Clee can even stand to wake up. He's seventeen, and has taken enough tessarae for all of us since he was my age. The worry that I feel for myself is multiplied to the umpteenth degree for the fear I have for his safety.

I'd never tell Falcon how much I worry about this, though. That's how the home works. The older kids take care of the younger kids, because the adults don't take care of anyone.

"Exactly. There are thousands of other kids at Reaping age in our District," I confirm. Thousands upon thousands of slips will be in the Reaping ball, and even though Clee and I have a comparatively high number of those slips, it can't negate the overwhelming size of the pool. Right?

"Wake up, children! It's Reaping day!" The caretaker calls, as if we didn't already know.

Stirring comes from two tiny bodies nearby. Garble-mouthed baby Wyatt toddles over to me, and sticks out his arms, wordlessly asking me to pick him up.

I consider scolding him for climbing out of his crib, but I can't bear to today. "Good morning, buddy," I coo. I take him into my arms and settle him onto my lap.

Nyah climbs into the bed that the older kids are sharing, with her thumb in her mouth, and I hear the support beams of the furniture creak. This is when I decide that we need to get up—before we break the bed that Gwenyth and I are supposed to share, so I pass Wyatt off to Clee and get out of bed.

"I don't want to go," Nyah squeals, and yanks my threadbare blanket over her head. I look at Clee, and he winks at me, mouthing, "You grab her arms and I'll grab her legs."

I nod in agreement, but not before I usher the other kids out as well. Nyah doesn't seem to notice the shifting of the bed. She pressed her tiny hands into her eyes, and I gently took them away from her face.

"You have to, Nyah," I say.

"No!"

"Now!" Clee yells, wrapping his hands around her ankles. I secure the grip that I have on her wrists, and we lift the squirming, shrieking body off of my bed. In between Nyah's cries, we can hear the raucous laughter of the others.

"Are you going to cooperate now?" I ask her, feigning seriousness.

"Yes, now put me down!" she giggles.

"Keep it down, pests!" our caretaker yells into our room. I roll my eyes for the benefit of the younger fosters, because her harshness can scare them sometimes. I get several tentative smiles in response.

We each pull clothes out of our drawers, and the three youngest change in the room while Xanthe, Gwenyth, Clee and I wait in line for the bathroom. I know better that to waste my time waiting for the shower, so I just step into my skirt and the billowy shirt that my foster siblings pitched in to buy me for my birthday last year. It's not really nice enough for the Reaping, but it's the most valuable piece of clothing that I own.

"Took you long enough, Sparky" Clee jokes. I'm known for being the fastest changer here, so I don't feel bad. Plus, he uses my real name when he's annoyed with me—he's the only one who ever uses my given name.

In our room, I brush out my hair. It used to be brown, but now it's heartily streaked with white from the many accidents I made when I was first learning to construct circuits. It's not entirely my fault. No one told me that you're supposed to wear rubber gloves when you connect the final wire to its power source. I thought that the shocks were just part of the process.

"You urchins are going to be late for the Reaping, and I'm not going to say a thing in your defense if the Peacekeepers string you up on the posts." The caretaker is an old, miserable woman who delights in crushing the souls of young children.

"We're ready to go right now," Clee says hastily. He takes Nyah's hand in his right, and Falcon's in his left. "We'll see you guys back here later," he tells us.

I nod and go to collect the rest of our party. Wyatt is babbling on the bed, chewing on a piece of thick wire tubing, and I pick him up. I'd planned on carrying him to the Justice Building and leaving him with Xanthe during the Reaping, but I see that Gwenyth's nose is red. She's sniffling in that way that people do when they're trying not to burst into sobs. I call Xanthe over, and immediately pass him the baby. The second my arms are free, I take Gwenyth's hand in my own.

"It'll be ok," I tell her, and then make eye contact with Xanthe. "You take the baby and find Clee. We'll be right up."

The boy nods and scoots out the door. I know we should be hurrying, but this is Gwenyth's first Reaping, and I can easily remember how scared I was. Clee was only a little bit older then than I am now, but he did exactly the same thing that I am. Gwenyth leans her head against my shoulder, and once her sniffling subsides, I nudge her into a standing position.

"Let's get going," I say, and we walk in comfortable silence to the square where the Reaping is being held.

I wave at the children when I find them in the audience, and guide Gwenyth to the crowd of eligible twelves. When she turns to me to say goodbye, I grab her into a warm hug.

I release her and she smiles at me. Swerving through the crowd, I stand with the girls my age and am thoroughly shunned. It doesn't really matter how friendly I am. An orphan is an outcast, and is not to be associated with. It still smarts a little bit when people's glances slide right over me, but I'm mostly used to it by now.

"Greetings, District Three!" Our escort, Nova Juxta calls out to the crowd. There is an underwhelming applause from the gathered crowd. After an acceptable amount of time, we fall silent, waiting to hear the name of the first victim.

As always, Nova wears a mega-watt, surgically perfected smile, and her violet colored eyes (I still haven't figured out how she does it. Are they chemically or surgically altered, or if they've implanted something over her irises) are eagerly surveying the crowd.

She pushes up her sleeve for effect, and sticks her arm elbow-deep into the female Reaping bowl. I hold my breath, waiting for the torment to be over for this year.

"Leona Avalon!"

I never liked the name Leona. It seemed a little bit random, and it tended to make me wonder things about my parents that I prefer not to think about. It's why I've always preferred to go by Sparky. It's more me than my given name.

I think that's why I don't realize that I am the girl being Reaped until a girl next to me shoves me toward the stage.

"Just go before they bring in the peacekeepers," she hisses at me. I'd love to move, but my insides have turned to lead. There's no possible way that I can do this. The fact that I am going to die hits me so hard that I could fall over.

"Leona Avalon?" Nova asks, scanning the crowd.

"Just go!" Another girl yells at me. Somehow, I manage to propel myself forward. I can feel my pulse in my temple as I walk toward my death sentence. As I walk through the crowd of twelves, I frantic hand grabs my arm, and Gwenyth's heaving sobs drown out my own fear.

"Let me go, Gwenyth. I've got to go win the Hunger Games."

It's half a joke and half reassurance. Gwenyth lets go, but her crying gets louder. I can't imagine how frightened my other foster siblings are. Seeing me lose my cool won't do them any good. So I plaster a small smirk on my face. It's the most I can manage.

"Congratulations, Leona!" Nova cries. "And now, for the boys!" She crosses to the other side of the stage, and it feels like she's walking in slow motion. Everything, in fact, feels like it's in slow motion.

I wonder if this is how people deal with their impending doom—by dragging out each of their remaining seconds. I hope it isn't. I don't want to live with this dread for longer than I have to.

Hyperaware, I watch the unnaturally thin arm of our escort fishes inside of the bowl, making sure to turn over as many slips as she can, before she finally plucks one out.

"Cotan Kay!"

Movement begins in the thirteen area of the crowd of boys, and a small kid with knocking knees slowly makes his way in our direction. His dark brown hair is plastered to his head—still damp from a shower, I suppose—and when he gets close enough, I realize that his baby blue eyes are shimmering with tears.

This is really not what I needed to see.

I'm so close to coming undone, and it's all I can do not to cry out when his hand spasms as we shake hands. I struggle to keep my breathing even and my smile present until we're finally allowed to leave the stage, but all I can think is, _why me_?

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><strong>

**The Modern Olympic Games have existed since their revival in 1896. The flag of the Olympics, with the interlocking ring design, was not flown until some time later, however. In what city and in what year was the Olympic flag first flown?**


	9. The Reaping: District Four

**Reaping: District Four**

**Rip Killian**

Blue-green waves lap against the side of my family's small fishing boat. I stick my hand into the water and bring it to my lips. It's the perfect temperature—a cool 65 degrees—and is pleasantly salty. What I don't taste, I splash across my skin. It's already warm from the summer morning sun, and the water is tantalizingly refreshing.

I wasn't supposed to go out this morning, but what else could I do? The sun is the brightest it's been since the beginning of the storm season. It's not really like my family could stop me, anyway. I've been the main provider for our family since I was old enough to dive for the clams we sell at the market. My mother was beginning to get too old for the heaviness of deep diving, and my crippled father was never able to himself.

I slip out of my t-shirt and my tan shorts, preparing to dive into the water. I'm not actually fishing this morning, but I decide to take a net down anyway. I might catch myself some breakfast.

Eager to be beneath the waves, I dive straight, cutting quickly through the water. Most people I know need to wear masks this deep, but I've always been able to budget my time well enough that I can swim up for air as soon as I have to.

There's a certain tranquility that I love when I'm submerged. The water dulls all sound and cools off my body, and to some degree, my thoughts. I open my eyes to take in the bright colors around me, and spot a bed of oysters situated on an underwater shelf. I've been harvesting the bivalves long enough to know how many I can safely take before I endanger cluster. I pry the creatures off of the rocks and place five in my net. I can feel my lungs begin to strain, so I propel myself up to the surface.

My head breaks the surface, and I whip my dripping hair out of my face. I sling the net over the side of my boat before hauling myself in as well. There is a shucking knife in a compartment beneath the bench, and I extract it to help myself to my meal.

Sliding the knife between the lips of the first oyster, I pry the shell apart. I shimmy the knife under the meat to sever the adductor muscle and slurp the fresh seafood, relishing the salty taste of the ocean. I've always thought oysters were better raw.

I quickly eat through my catch, but on the last creature, I find a small, imperfect black pearl inside. The pearl intrigues me. I know that the pearl isn't valuable. Edible oysters don't produce the kind of pearls that we ship to district one. Still, I am transfixed by the object. There is a tiny dimple in the surface, and I'm struck with inspiration.

I take the tip of a fishing hook, and press it into the dimple, eventually managing to bore a hole threw the pearl. I find a bit of twine, which we use to make quick repairs on nets, and string it through the hole I made. Satisfied with the finished product, I tie it around my wrist.

I gather the discarded shells and dump over the side of my boat. I don't consider it polluting, because there are plenty of species of fish that will feed off of my trash.

Judging by the sun, I know that the Reaping is only in a few hours. I need to get back, but my gut is heavy and prevents me.

I know that I'm going to volunteer today. It's the only way to ensure that an innocent boy doesn't lose his life. At least not this year.

I can't guarantee that I'll win. In fact, I know that I probably won't, but I can at least do as much damage to the Capitol's Hunger Games as I can.

If the Capitol could read my mind, I'd be long dead. For eight years, I've been thinking of some way to show them that I can't—I won't—stand by watching like the wide eyed kid I used to be. Somehow, I will show President Snow and his lackeys that they won't get away with killing children forever.

I've watched a "criminal" be burnt at the stake on his boat. His crime was fishing too far out in the ocean, because fishermen with better supplies overfish within our boundaries. I know about the atrocities committed that no one else in our district notices, because they worry about nothing but their own safety.

Since that moment when I was ten, my life has taken a drastic turn. Training, something I was ambivalent to before then, became a central fixture in my life. My father had always wanted to be a tribute, but his club foot kept him from volunteering. When he saw my dedication, he was ecstatic. Proud beyond measure. What he didn't know was that it was a part of my plan to stop the evil from the inside.

I wouldn't be able to do much damage in the arena if I died before I got my point across.

Sighing, I use my shirt to towel myself off and pull on my shorts. I begin to row toward the shore. The pearl on my wrist glints in the sunlight.

The sun is just past the half-way point between the horizon and the peak of its trajectory. This means that I won't have time to return home before the Reaping. It's not a tragedy, though. I'll have time to say my goodbyes after I've volunteered.

When I reach the dock where I tie my boat, my ears are assailed by the boisterous sounds of workers singing the songs that every person from District Four knows instinctively. The familiar strains make me smile broadly. My smiles are hard to come by when I'm on solid land, so this is a pleasant surprise. So far, this has not been a bad Reaping day.

The song dies down, and the dock workers finish tie my boat up for me. They are packed up to leave. They must be nearly done for the morning.

I stand by my boat while they tie it, stalling before I go to the Justice Building, when one of them says, "I don't know how we'll get along without that one."

"Whaddaya mean? Today's the first day she's spoken a word to me," another, smaller one answers.

"That's because you never made the effort. I just… I just don't think I can watch her die." The voice sounds distressed.

"Why's she volunteering in the first place?"

"She needs the money. She's on her own, you know." The worker sounds defeated, depressed even. He must know the girl volunteer well.

I am sprinting to the Justice Building before I can entirely understand the conversation. It occurs to me that, even though I'm saving one boy's life by volunteering, there's nothing I can do for the girls. And it's obvious that the girl who plans to volunteer will be leaving someone behind.

Inandout. Inandout. My steady breathing is the only thing I let myself think of.

When I get to the square, I wish I could keep running, but I can't without missing the Reaping. Situated with the eighteens, I watch in mute fury as the Reaping begins. Our district escort, a corpulent Capitol citizen, draws it out for as long as he can. He draws the name of a friend of my sister's. There is a brief commotion, and a seventeen-year-old girl volunteers. She is wearing thick rubber boots, a thin sweater, and denim work pants. This is standard dress for a dock worker. She says her name is Vanora Credylad.

In an indulgent, lazy manner, our escort slips his hand into the male Reaping ball. A boy with me in the crowd of eighteens is reaped. He moves, shocked, to climb to the stage, but I cut him off by volunteering.

When I take to the stage, the escort asks me, with his chin juggling in an amusing way, for my name.

"Rip Killian," I say confidently.

Suddenly, there is a scream coming from the gathered citizens.

I can't see the face, but I know through familiarity that the pained, terrified cries are coming from Coral Killian, my sister.

* * *

><p><strong>Vanora Credylad<strong>

I see the docks, and the waves, and the rising sun. Really, I do. But I also see past them. I see _into_ the past, to be precise. While I watch a gull snap up one of the dead fish that we can never sweep off the planks soon enough, I'm also seeing my sister's face. I'm seeing the face of the last person she ever saw it's sinister and cruel. I know that she died horribly. Nothing I can do, or ever could do, can change the way little Pelagia left the world.

This is too much. I shift my vision, so I'm seeing the ropes that my practiced hands are twisting into knots. A chantey that my mother sang to me to calm herself down between beatings comes to my mind. It has a similar effect on me, and I begin to sing the rough strains aloud.

My hands must have stopped moving, because two callused ones finish my work for me. Once finished, they take mine, and I am forced to look at the warm eyes of my only real friend, Pascal Tolarin. When I'm looking at him, I can't see the other things.

"C'mon, Vanora. I can't keep covering for you like this. Just try to stay with me, ok?"

I stare at him, wide-eyed. Not sure if I can.

"I'll try," I say quietly. He sighs, but nods. I begin to sing again. Pascal knows the song and joins in on the second verse. Neither of us is any good at singing, but something about Pascal's voice reminds me of salt and storm clouds. I like it.

When I go back to work packing rope-cutting supplies away, it's not the past I'm thinking of, but my future. I see myself walking up to the Reaping stage and volunteering. I'm going volunteer today, because if I win the games I can get myself a house, maybe go back to school, and create a life for myself that doesn't entail spending 16 hours a day doing back breaking work that at best I'm mediocre out.

I know that the only reason I still have my job is because Pascal takes over for me whenever I see the things that aren't really there.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy. Generally, when people see things, it's a strong indication, but it's not like I actually think that what I see is real. I think that my brain splits itself off and one part focuses on reality while the other focuses on my thought. That doesn't make me crazy, though. It just makes me different.

My mind starts to split again. One half is using a knife to cut through an old piece of rope that's knotted around a support beam. The other is considering what would happen if I don't win the Hunger Games.

It's silly that I'm worried. If I die, I don't have to work so hard. I'm not sure what other alternatives there are to life, but maybe I'll find Pelagia wherever I go. Besides, it's not like I have anyone to live for here. Except for Pascal, maybe, but he's years older than me, and I'm so emotionally distant that there's no way he can be that attached to me.

Part of me wonders if my parents know I'm still alive. My mother might have some idea. Maternal instincts are supposedly strong. My father probably just assumed I died with Pelagia, and that they just couldn't find my body.

At the Reaping, my parents will see me. This doesn't worry me very much, though. If I'm emotionally distant, my mother has entirely checked out. And my father never gave a damn about anything but keeping my mother in line. If he does make an episode, I know people now who'll take care of him if I ask them to. My father may be mean, but the men who work the docks are strong.

"Vanora!" Pascal snaps, interrupting the song. My thoughts converge, and I see that my hand slipped while I was cutting the rope free. My pointer finger is covered in blood. I lift it to my face, trying to assess the damage, but the red liquid obscures everything. "Sit down on that bench, I'll be right there to clean you up."

"Ok, Pascal," I say. I realize now that all of the men on the docks are singing. The chantey I started. It's one of those really old ones with dozens of verses that everyone knows by heart. I wait until they finish the chorus before I join in singing. My hand hurts, but not too badly.

Pascal comes over to me with bandages in his hand and a plastic cup filled with seawater.

"Hold your hand out, Vanora." I comply, but keep singing. The song, a bittersweet one about trying to find your way home, helps to quiet my thoughts. "What happened?"

"I was thinking about my father," I respond. Pascal purses his lips and doesn't say anything. I don't think I've ever told him that my father used to beat up my mother, but he's guessed after knowing me for so many years.

He pours the water over my finger to clean it up, and I see that it's not bad at all. It's barely even deep. It must have happened a few minutes before Pascal noticed for it to be as bloody as it was.

"Mountain out of a molehill," I say, teasingly. He grins but doesn't say anything. His deft hands wrap up my finger, and before long it's as good as new. The pressure of the bandage even mutes most of the pain.

"Are you still volunteering this year?" he asks me. He looks apprehensive.

"Yep. Might as well get it over with."

"Why won't you wait until you're eighteen?"

"Because I'm ready to now. I don't think I can handle another year like this: no school, working thanklessly every day." He has to understand. He hates working on the docks just as much as I do.

He nods. "I guess I understand your point. I'll see you in the Justice Building to say goodbye. Ok?"

He looks genuinely worried. Maybe I'd underestimated how much Pascal cares about me. Still, he's a likeable guy. His other friends will take my spot if I don't come back.

"Ok. I'm going to go now," I stand up, and walk back toward the main part of the district. I shake hands with every worker that I pass, saying goodbye. I don't care that they don't stop singing. In fact, it's the best thing that they could have done.

Before long, the boisterous singing is too quiet for me to hear, and I stand in the uncomfortable silence. It's not really silent, of course. The crowd of children is loud and unruly. All that I can think of, though, is the absence of the singing men.

Because I'm temporarily deaf, I time my volunteering based on the extraction of a slip from the Reaping ball. Girls are always first.

"I volunteer. My name is Vanora Credylad." I don't wait to be asked for my name, because I know I won't hear it.

Once I'm on the stage, I am facing east, so I watch the brightness of the sun. Between the overwhelming absence of music, and the effacing light of the sun, I lose myself entirely for who knows how long. I watch the swirling patterns that come when you look at a light for too long with interest. They are stunningly beautiful, moving in well-choreographed paths, and I think I could look at them forever.

Unfortunately, a hand grabs mine and I am forced once more to the present.

The male tribute is neither smiling nor frowning, but he has the kind of mouth that always seems on the verge of the latter. He is not wearing a shirt. Did he think this would make him more appealing to sponsors? Or did he think it would make me uneasy. If it's the second, then he wasted his lack-of-clothing. More than a few of my coworkers go without shirts in the summer.

His handshake is brief, and not necessarily friendly, but at least it isn't unfriendly.

I am fixated by his hands. They are strong, but not callused in the way I'm used to. His fingernails are dirty and short. He has very blond hair that stops at his wrists.

He begins to move his hand, and I realize that I've probably been holding it for too long. His mouth is definitely closer to frowning that he was before. As soon as I'm allowed, I exit the stage. I wasn't really there anyway.

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**What kind of symmetry does a starfish exhibit?**


	10. The Reaping: District Five

**Reaping: District Five**

**(I decided that for districts where both tributes are bloodbathers, I'll write from the perspective of a mentor. Wish me luck.)**

**Nebula Foraker**

The sun slides through the slits in my blinds in the morning, drawing me from my restless sleep. It's too bright. The yellows and oranges harass my eyes, permeating through the millimeters of skin protecting my eyes. It's too harsh.

Suddenly, I am not in my bed. I am hiding in a cave, away from the direct rays of the nearest star to Earth. The air is hot—so, so hot—that this is the only way to get any relief. But I know it won't last forever. Rock retains heat. Eventually, it will be hotter in my cave than it is outside, and I will literally be baked to death. But there's nothing I can do, because the heat of the sun is already too intense for me to survive the trip outside.

There is only one other tribute left alive. I honestly don't know how he is. Maybe it's because he's used to radiation from the sun, being from District Four. It doesn't really matter, though. One of us is going to die, and the game makers are trying to make sure that it's a good scene for the audience.

My breathing starts to rise in frequency. From my perch, I can see the boy. He's so much bigger than me, and he's so much more deadly, that I'm a bit surprised he hasn't killed me yet. It's only a matter of time before he kills me with his bare hands. Before he returns to his district a victor.

But I can see that he's acting oddly. He's pressing his hands against his forehead. He's covering his eyes. Blisters sprout up from his reddening skin. He is starting to bleed on his back, where he is getting the most sun. He collapses onto the black stone ground and begins screaming. I can hear the sizzling, smell his flesh burning, from where I am. I want to cry, I want to scream and run away. Run all the way back to district five, and then keep going until I find whatever I know must exist beyond Panem.

Instead, I am planted in my spot, listening to the death-screams of a eighteen-year-old boy, and trying not to panic as my hiding spot becomes incrementally less bearable.

Eventually, his cries become whines, and his whines become whimpers. They cut off at some point, and just when I'm thinking that he might outlast me, because my own hiding space is rapidly approaching fatal temperature, his cannon goes off.

This is when I do the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life.

I look.

Before the hovercraft takes him away, I can see that he is literally fried to the ground. His body resembles cooked meat. Something on his face has melted. His body is bubbling. I look, and look, and look, until finally the Capitol scrapes his body off of the ground. I keep staring, but now I am staring at the manufactured, deadly sun. I keep my gaze even after I feel searing pain begin. My hovercraft comes for me, but I hear it. I don't see it, because I have gone blind.

This is when I begin screaming.

I yell, thrashing in my bed sheets, cursing the world that let the last thing I ever saw be the dead, cooked body of a young man. I scream until my husband comes into the room, shaking me awake. He has not slept in the same bed as me since our honeymoon, because I would hurt him whenever I went into my terrors.

"Neb, neb, wake up Neb, it was only a dream," his soothing, lilting voice calls.

I rip my eyes open, but it brings no relief. In fact, it lets more light in and makes everything worse.

I hyperventilate now, and do not stop until I feel a frigid, wet towel pressing against my sweaty cheek. My husband's soft hands place sunglasses on my face, and he proceeds to wipe the sweat from the nape of my neck, my shoulders, my hands. Everywhere he wipes, he kisses. He was careful to run ice across his lips before doing this, because the first time he ever kissed me, I nearly broke his nose when I flinched away from his body heat.

The care my husband, Seismo Foraker, takes when dealing with me is the reason I decided to accept his proposal. I didn't think it was wise to ever get married. I am too damaged to be a partner to anyone in anything. But Seismo loved me before I became an emotional and physical cripple. When I miraculously came back alive, he claimed that he was too overjoyed that I was still there to care that I was damaged. I didn't think I could make it on my own, anyway.

"You have to go to the Reaping, today," he tells me, carefully, knowing that this could set me off. I'm too tired from my last fit, though.

I nod, pushing myself up out of the bed. Seismo takes my hand and guides me to the bar I had installed next to my closet. It helps me keep my balance when Seismo does things like putting on my shoes for me.

"What do you want to wear today?" he asks, falsely jovial. He does this on days when I'm particularly sensitive. I appreciate the gesture, but the false note to his voice just makes me feel guilty for upsetting him.

"My gold blouse with the red skirt."

"Shoes?"

"The gold ones that match the blouse." One of the adjustments Seismo had to make for my blindness was developing a sense of style. I have to trust his eye for what makes me look nice, or what doesn't. He has to explain if the fabric is matte, if the color is vibrant or muted, if a shirt is blousy in the right places. He pretends it's not difficult, but for all I know, I look like a clown to all of Panem. But I couldn't care less, because he's kind enough to try.

He helps me take of my nightclothes and replace them with the outfit I chose. He buttons my shirt for me, keeping a running commentary of how beautiful I am.

"Do I have any gray hairs?" I ask him. This is a regular occurrence. Sometimes I ask him if I have any wrinkles, but today it's gray hairs.

"Not a one," he says sweetly. I've begun to think he's lying, because my mother's hair was almost entirely gray by the time she was forty, and I'm forty-two, but I accept his statement.

Ever since the Capitol told me that my vision would never be restored—that my eyes were almost entirely composed of scar tissue—Seismo has been my eyes.

After he brushes out my presumably grizzled hair and pins it behind my head.

"Are you ready to go?" he asks me.

"Yes, dear," I say.

After numerous tumbles down the stairs, Seismo realized that I am not capable of descending them alone, so now he always guides me down. He hands my cane to me and guides me out of our house in Victor's Village.

He assures me our home, like me, is beautiful. Based on my decades-old-memories of these buildings, I am more comfortable taking his word on this matter.

It is too warm when I am outside. I don't like summer for this reason. Seismo has brought a bag of ice, though. He hands a cube to me when I hold my hand out expectantly.

We walk to the end of the cul-de-sac that forms the Victors' community, and my cane touches the toe of someone's shoe. A kind male voice laughs.

"Watch where you put that thing, Nebula, you could poke my eye out," he tells me, still chuckling. "It wouldn't be a good idea to send our tributes in with two blind mentors, would it?"

Orion Levits was the first tribute I ever brought home. It was my third time being a mentor, and it was twenty years ago. He is helping me mentor this year, and I am glad, because I don't get along well with the other living victor from our district.

"I'd appreciate it if you would be more polite to my wife, Orion," Seismo says, rather sternly.

"You'd still be able to see with one eye, Orion. Unless the feeling came across me to poke the other out as well," I joke. I hope that it shows Seismo that I'm not as sensitive as he believes me to be.

"Relax. You know Neb's in good hands with me."

"Right," Seismo says, unconvincingly. My husband drops my hand without the eyes. I hear the rustling of the bag of ice as it is passed off, and Orion takes my newly free hand gently.

Orion isn't as gentle when guiding me, but he's not as persistently cautious as my husband, and I usually appreciate the levity.

When Seismo's footsteps begin in the opposite direction of ours, Orion whispers in my ear, "Let's go find out which lambs are headed to the slaughter this year."

* * *

><p><strong>Orion Levits<strong>

I've been in love with Nebula Winslowe since she saved my life in the arena by sending me a strain of super-bacteria. The cure could be extracted from a type of plant that was abundant in the arena. When I infected whatever water sources I could find with the pathogens, snacking on shrubbery the entire time, the remaining tributes died horrible deaths within hours.

When Nebula Winslowe became Nebula Foraker, I was only happy for her because Seismo made her happy and took care of her. It killed almost as much of me to see her marry another man as it did to take another person's life.

Even though her formerly brown hair is heavily streaked with gray, and even though her crow's feet grow more pronounced by the week because of how frequently she squeezes her eyes shut, I still think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever known. It makes me sick to know that I will never be allowed to wake her from the nightmares that I know she has. It makes me sick to know she will never wake me from my own.

She sighs at my latest of many rebellious comments.

"Talking like that will get you in trouble some day, Orion," she says, faking disapproval.

I grin at her, knowing she won't be able to be angry at my dismissive attitude. She's never been able to be angry at me.

"Right, of course," I reply, with deeply affected seriousness.

We are early for the Reaping, as we are supposed to be. I assist Nebula up the stairs and help her sit down in her chair. We chat briefly with the mayor, watching as the crowd grows.

Beamer Juestis, a fifty-five year old victor, shows up twenty minutes later than he was supposed to, and I can tell he's hung over by the way he flinches when our manic district escort launches a tirade against him.

"Aw, what does it matter? I'm not even a mentor this year."

"It's the image of propriety! What will the children think? Why would any of them volunteer when they run the chance of having a mentor like you?" she screeches, wagging her fingers, with formidably long fingernails, at Beamer.

"Why would any of them volunteer at all?" I roar before I can stop myself. This is it. No way to backtrack, no way to spin this off in a positive manner. My only sense of accomplishment is the stricken look on our escort's face.

"Well, for ho-honor and r-riches," she stutters. I snort in disgust.

Nebula looks in my direction (she's not looking directly at me, which I used to be unnerved by, but I've grown used to it) and squeezes my hand. My anger melts away entirely.

Still upset, the escort decides to begin the Reaping.

"Hello, District Five!" she calls, her high-pitched squeal belying her shaken insides.

No one says hello back.

"Well, this is sure to be another exciting Hunger Games! Let's begin, shall we?"

More silence. Nebula takes her hand out of mine, and taps on my leg. I don't understand why until I see that her mouth is moving rapidly, and he breathing is approaching dangerous rates. I realize that I'm still holding her bag of ice—now significantly melted—and I press it against her hand so she knows that it's there. She takes it with a relieved breath, and I return my attention to the proceedings.

"Let's begin with the ladies!" she cries. Her fingernails are a major hindrance as she tries to grab a slip of paper.

Finally, she succeeds. "Jushia Fulstead!" she cries.

I small girl from the fifteens makes her way to the stage. She has tears falling from her eyes, but she is not sobbing, which is more than I can say for any of her predecessors. As she stares out to the audience, the escort clacks loudly to fish out a slip for the males.

"Karvick Passa!"

This one is eighteen, but he certainly doesn't look it. He walks to the stage in a daze, and turns to face his district partner. I've become so desensitized to Nebula's idiosyncrasies that I don't realized he's blind until I see his slim cane. The crowd groans in shock and anger. They, like me, wonder why the Capitol would ever condemn a cripple to death.

Instinctively, I reach out for Nebula's hand. I can feel my eyes begin to smart. Jushia's silent tears have become sobs now that she sees who else must die.

The only person who isn't upset by the display is our district escort. She's too busy making comments about how diverse these Games will be, and that they're sure to be the best ever.

I could kill her.

Nebula grips my sleeve, tugging on it and pulling me closer to her.

"What's the matter?" she asks me guardedly.

It takes me several tries, opening and closing my mouth, before I think I can answer.

"He's blind," I say.

A small cry escapes her, and she shoves her hands into her bag of ice. She takes off her sunglasses so she can press some of the chunks to her eyelids.

As they melt, I can't tell which if the tracks of water on the face are from the ice and which are from her tears.

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	11. The Reaping: District Six

**Reaping: District Six**

**Brinna Rosalyn Marszcol **

My growling stomach is what wakes me up the day of the Reaping. I am at first surprised, because generally I am too queasy on Reaping days to eat anything. However, I soon remember that I am hungry because my nervousness made it impossible to eat dinner last night.

It is tempting to ignore my roiling stomach and sleep for a few more precious minutes, but soon my mother's disdainful voice is yelling that today is the Reaping Day. She won't have me making her look bad by showing up late.

I roll off of my mattress and plant my bare feet on the ground. Laid out on my dresser is the same dress I have worn since I was twelve. I suppose that it's a bit sad that it still fits me rather well, but I'm not sure what I could do about it, so I pull it over my head.

One of the buttons catches on my necklace when I'm halfway dressed. Inconvenienced slightly, I slip my hand around the skirt of my dress to detach it.

People think that it's strange that I still wear my DNA necklace. We made them as an assignment in school when I was twelve. It's clunky, poorly assembled, and has a container with a small bit of my skin cells as a locket of sorts.

But it was there for me during my first Reaping, and I can't bear to part with it for this reason.

I place sandals on my feet, and wordlessly enter the corner of my mother's home that serves as a kitchen. She is coolly sipping at her tea, and doesn't actually pay much attention to me. I went through a phase when I was around thirteen where her studious ignorance of me made me angry, furious even. I would yell horrible things at her, threaten to run away, throw things, and the woman wouldn't bat an eye. _Maybe_ she would send me to my room, but even that was exceptional.

I'm not sure when, but at some point I got over it. I simply pretended that I couldn't see her either.

From my counter, I grab a loaf of bread and a pot of honey. I have to admit that I'm mildly surprised she doesn't stop me. Honey is expensive. But she'd have to notice me to notice that I've taken the honey, so there it is.

Through the door, down the street for a block, and then a left turn. This is how far I have to walk to get to my father's house to see my brother. Even though my father misses me, he's not willing to risk my mother's wrath by allowing me to visit.

So instead, I walk for ten minutes to a small, rather thick outcropping of trees where my twin brother, Brian, is waiting for me with some kind of food.

We never officially decided to do this, but since we were twelve, we've always met at this outcropping to have a picnic of sorts before the Reaping Ceremony. We both bring food to share, and we chat, trying to pretend that we aren't terrified.

I've been taking the tessarae for the past four years, and so has Brian. We are both entered eighteen times. Identical twins, identical odds of being reaped. I wonder sometimes if that's just a coincidence.

I reach our private meeting spot, and Brian is already there, snacking on bits of what looks to be roasted goat. I've never really liked it, but protein is protein.

"You could've brought something a little nicer," I tease. "After all, I went and stole our honey pot. I wouldn't have bothered if I'd known you'd be so stingy."

This is our own inside joke, satirizing our parents' competitive frugality. Brian, of course, understands this, and smiles.

Brian is bigger than me, but other than that, he is essentially what I would look like as a boy. We are both scrawny, for lack of a better term, with thin black hair. We are also the only people in our district with brown eyes. I've yet to some to terms with this. I generally just tell people that my eyes are hazel, with more brown than green. So far, Brian is the only person who doesn't believe me.

"I'm doing you a favor! Look at your size! Your muscles are probably atrophying as we speak. You need some protein." He flicks my pony-tail playfully, and I scowl.

"Har. Har. Har."

He takes the food from my hand, and places the pot on the ground. His fingers rip the loaf of bread in half, and he hands one to me.

"Eat up, kid," he says as he divides up the goat between us, and dips his half of the bread in honey.

When I rip into my goat, his eyebrows raise in surprise. Generally during our picnics, I nip politely at my food for a few minutes and proceed to give the rest to him.

"I didn't eat last night," I explain. He nods.

"Nervous?"

"Yep."

We eat quietly. Well, I eat quietly. He eats like one of the dogs my next-door neighbor keeps.

Eventually, the food runs out, and we are faced with the fact that our lives are once again in danger. One would think that divorced parents would put their differences aside when there's always a very real chance of losing one or both of them. But, no. Not our parents. Because the only thing our parents care more about than their children is spiting their ex.

Brian takes my hand and gives me what I think is supposed to be an encouraging smile.

"Only two more times after today," he tells me.

And technically he's right. But with every year that passes, there's a greater chance that the Hunger Games will take one of us. I gag at the thought.

Hand-in-hand, we walk to the Justice Building by way of a circuitous path that does not pass the houses of either of our parents. It's slow-going, but that's not actually a bad thing. As frequently as my brother can be a brat, he's still my brother. Spending time with him is something I enjoy. Something that shouldn't be a rarity, but somehow is.

When we reach the square, we separate out of habit. Our parents could be here, and if they saw the two of us together, there would be Hell to pay.

I walk to the sixteens, where my friends Milla, Caysee and Sophet are. If I were more sociable, I wouldn't be friends with these three. We don't have many similar interests, and have very few classes together. By virtue of our shared dislike of strangers, however, we became friends, and I couldn't ask for anything more while I wait to hear if I'll be dying this year.

None of us very verbose, brief hellos are exchanged before we lapse into a tense quiet waiting for the Reaping. The district escort, Gala Morven, asks for applause and is rewarded with silence, surprisingly enough.

She, as always, goes to draw the girl's name, and I wait tensely, willing the slip not to bear my name.

"Brinna Rosalyn Marszcol!"

What a waste of time.

My thoughts are all bounding around inside my head. I wonder what my brother is thinking, or my father, or heaven forbid my mother. I am thinking that I was so very stupid for relying on something as silly as wishful thinking to ensure my safety. I am trying to figure out who it is that has grabbed my hand, and who it is that is pushing me from behind. Why is she pushing me? Am I in her way? Did I do something wrong? Does she need me to get her something?

"Go up, Rose," a voice—whose?—commands. I begin to walk, because my brain is too occupied to come up with space for dissenting opinion.

And then there is pain. The individual impressions in my head are throwing themselves against my temple, and it hurts. It really hurts.

Eventually I find myself on the stage. I am trying to focus my thought onto one thing—my brother. I see him in the audience. He is shocked. I think. It is hard to understand anything beyond the suddenly crippling headache I've developed.

Is that normal? Do headaches just appear out of no where? Do I have a tumor? They wouldn't make a dying girl compete in the Hunger Games, would they? Where's the entertainment value in that?

My brother is crying. I might be crying, too. I'm not really sure,

A boy is called, but I don't hear his name. All I hear is that it isn't Brian Rowan Marszcol. What used to be cause for celebration is now just a bit of silver lining on a very, VERY dark storm cloud.

I shake hands with this boy who thankfully isn't my brother. I wonder if his head hurts as much as I do. Maybe it is normal for tributes. How would I know?

A peacekeeper grabs my arm. I suppose it's time for me to leave, because he's dragging me off of the stage. I press my hands against my temple, and use my thumbs to apply pressure to my eyes. It doesn't help much, but at least it makes me feel like I'm doing something to help.

I'm not sure how, but a single thought rises, making itself known above all of the other rampaging ideas. I cling to it, because it's better than being lost in the sea that I was stranded in before.

_Maybe now my mother will notice me._

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**This is a logic problem. Here are your clues. (You will need paper)**

**1. In a street there are five houses, painted five different colours.  
>2. In each house lives a person of different nationality<br>3. These five homeowners each drink a different kind of beverage, smoke different brand of cigar and keep a different pet.**

**THE QUESTION: WHO OWNS THE FISH?**

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**1. The Brit lives in a red house.**  
><strong>2. The Swede keeps dogs as pets.<strong>  
><strong>3. The Dane drinks tea.<strong>  
><strong>4. The Green house is next to, and on the left of the White house.<strong>  
><strong>5. The owner of the Green house drinks coffee.<strong>  
><strong>6. The person who smokes Pall Mall rears birds.<strong>  
><strong>7. The owner of the Yellow house smokes Dunhill.<strong>  
><strong>8. The man living in the centre house drinks milk.<strong>  
><strong>9. The Norwegian lives in the first house.<strong>  
><strong>10. The man who smokes Blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.<strong>  
><strong>11. The man who keeps horses lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.<strong>  
><strong>12. The man who smokes Blue Master drinks beer.<strong>  
><strong>13. The German smokes Prince.<strong>  
><strong>14. The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.<strong>  
><strong>15. The man who smokes Blends has a neighbour who drinks water.<strong>


	12. The Reaping: District Seven

**I DID NOT QUIT!**

**If you don't know what AP Tests are, then I'm grateful for your soul. That is the extent of the talking I want to do about my past month. But, hey! Aren't you glad I had such a spurt of inspiration before?**

**Reaping: District Seven**

I wake up, unsurprisingly, alone. The sun is barely over the horizon. I don't know many children who could get up at the crack of dawn on their own, but I've always been special.

I stretch my arms over my head, and roll onto the dusty wooden floor. I almost skip my shower, but hey—today's the Reaping. I have to look my best. It's with this thought in my mind that I venture into my parents' bedroom. The closet is ajar. My father always intends to fix it when he's home, but he's never actually home long enough. Inside is a green dress. It was my mother's, but she hasn't had a chance to wear it recently. I'm not sure why she hasn't given it to me yet, considering it's much too small for her, but she'll never know if I just slip it on for the Reaping and then put it back afterward.

It'd be a very pretty dress if it weren't so worn out. It's got little, darker green embroidered leaves all around it.

The dress is as big on me as it is small on my mother. It hangs well past my knees, but it's the nicest dress we have, so there's really nothing to be done about it.

I pull up my sleek hair into a pony tail and consider my job done for the morning.

In the kitchen, I find two biscuits with a note laid over them. In my mother's neat handwriting, she explains that she headed out early to see if the summer berries are ripe yet, and that she's excited to try out the little gadget I built for the purpose. It's nothing intricate—it's just a small vice with a pressure gauge. The reading says if the berry gives enough (if it's ripe it will). If you add a locking mechanism to ensure the berries aren't crushed into oblivion, then you can eliminate the hours of scrubbing it takes to get berry juice off of your hands.

My mother ends the note by calling me her brilliant, special girl. And I am.

Special not just because of my absentee parents—my father is off working most of the year, and my mother is always off scavenging in the forest—but because of myself.

I'm gifted. Not in any physical way. I couldn't win a fight with an ant. But I'm gifted in my mind. I do schoolwork that eighteen-year-olds find baffling. I'm studying to be an engineer when I grow up, and have already begun to draw up blueprints. I don't get any credit—what professional would want to admit to using the designs of a little girl?-but it's enough to know that I'm fairly successful as it is.

I eat the biscuits, sweep the crumbs into my hands, and go out side to feed the birds. I sit outside my door, waiting for Faunus to come by and walk me to the square. I'm more than capable of walking myself, but I like Faunus, and he seems to like playing the protector. When he's not in custody of the Peacekeepers, that is.

As kind and caring as my friend—honestly my only real friend—is to me, he's a downright rebel toward the district. The only reason he hasn't been executed yet is because he only gets caught for insignificant things, like collecting fallen branches for firewood. It's so commonplace here that he's merely slapped on the wrist, and then let go. Sometimes they even let him keep what he gathers.

He's much more careful when he does truly dangerous things. Once, he climbed the highest tree on the inside perimeter of the district, wiggled over the electrified fence on a particularly thin branch, and leaped over to the closest tree on the other side of the fence. He's the only person I know who's ever sneaked out of the District.

When he told me in class the next day, I nearly had a fit. Part of me was worried about the danger involved—even I don't think I can calculate the number of ways he could have died—but the other part of me was upset that he didn't let me help. I could have easily made him some kind of harness. Or a rope ladder. He said that he didn't want to risk involving me, in case something went wrong.

It's then, when I'm thinking about how terrifyingly often Faunus risks life and limb that he reaches my house.

"Morning Sparrow," he says, bordering on gaily.

"You sound like you've done something criminal," I respond, skeptic.

"Absolutely nothing of the sort."

"...I can think of at least a hundred reasons not to believe you."

He arches his eyebrow and smiles at me. "It's only criminal if you get caught, Sparrow."

"Of course," I can't help smiling in return.

"You look pretty." He says mildly, putting his hand on my back and ushering me into motion.

"You said that last year."

"It was true last year, too."

"If you make a tradition out of this, I'll never help you with your homework again," I threaten. It's bad enough that each year I'm routinely in the running to compete in the Hunger Games. To add more to the pattern would be unbearable. Too much.

"Fine. You look terrible. You've got a funny-looking face and you're freakishly small." He's laughing while he says it, which is the only reason why I don't smack him. I still manage a grimace.

"Make up your mind. Do you want to be pretty or funny-looking?"

"Neither. I want to be home." I sniff at him. Faunus doesn't answer. Somehow what I said came out a little more desperate than I meant for it to sound in my head.

"Sorry. I'm not having a good day."

"You and every other kid in Panem." He says. His fingers drum against my shoulder blade, and he's smiling a little bit again. I think we're alright.

We arrive at the Justice Building. It's crawling with everyone I know, but I still feel lonely. Faunus can't be with me for the scariest part, and it's hard for me to keep a straight face anymore.

"Go on over with the other kids, Sparrow." He very nearly shoves me, and I glare at him in response.

"I am with another kid." I say, planting my feet. Of course, planting my feet does nothing to help when he hoists me over his shoulder like a plank of wood.

"Put. Me. Down!" I cry, beating my fists against his back. I think he's trying to cover up his laughter, but he's not doing a very good job, because I can feel the vibrations in his back.

As suddenly as he lifted me up, he dumps me in with the other thirteens. I don't like being here, with them. I feel alienated. I haven't spoken with most of these kids in years, and I can tell Faunus knows it. He mouths what looks like "sorry" to me and jogs over to the seventeens.

I would be much more comfortable over there. I may not be friends with anyone but Faunus, but at least I know who most of them are from being in classes with them.

I might as well be standing by myself for all the interaction that goes on between me and my _peers. _As they chatter among themselves, I'm stoically watching as the mayor and the victors from district seven, and eventually our escort take the stage.

I wait through the formalities, feeling my pulse struggle, and when the girl's Reaping ball is finally brought out, I'm cataloging the symptoms of cardiac arrest, and checking myself for any and all signs.

For the ceremony of it all, the girl tribute is always chosen first. I try to comfort myself by crunching the numbers in my head—telling my self how minute the odds are that I'll be chosen.

"Sparrow Ardelin!"

Never in my life has math ever failed me so spectacularly. I remain motionless. Murmuring around me begins, and I hear distinctly-

"She's so smart, she'll probably build something that kills everyone else."

This nameless girl, and her careless comment give me hope. I'm smart. If I had the opportunity, maybe I _could _build something—maybe-

"Sparrow Ardelin! Are you out there?"

I gradually regain some control over my body. I walk to the stage, and I'm too busy calculating in my head how to survive the Games to pay attention to anything else.

I don't hear the boy's name when it is called because I'm running survival scenarios in my head if the arena is particularly dry this year. I read somewhere that if you dig deep enough, you can find water anywhere. Do rules of nature matter to Game Makers?

When I'm forced into reality to shake hands with the boy tribute, what I think is really inexcusable.

It's horrific, mind-numbing, heart-breaking, and sick.

As I stare up into the face of the male tribute, someone who has grown up with me, I think that I could kill him.

**Sponsor Points:**

**Match the Musician's Stage name to his Birth Name**

**1. Joey Ramone**

**2. Sting**

**3. Billy Idol**

**4. Alice Cooper**

**5. Elton John**

**a) Gordon Matthew Sumner **

**b) Reginald Kenneth Dwight **

**c) William Broad **

**d) Jeffrey Hyman **

**e) Vincent Furnier **


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